A few years back, I wrote an essay on creating magic systems that I titled Sanderson’s First Law. It had to do with the nature of foreshadowing as it relates to solving problems with magic. In that essay, I implied that I had other “laws” for magic systems that I’d someday talk about. Well, that time has come, as I’ve finally distilled my thoughts for the second law into an explanation that will work.

I’ll start, however, by noting that none of these “laws” are absolute. Nor am I the only one to talk about them. By calling them “Sanderson’s Laws” I’m merely referring to them in the way I think of them–they are rules I try to live by when designing magic systems for my books. There are a lot of ways to write, and the only real “laws” are the ones that work for you.

These work for me. I think they are actually all principles of good writing, not just writing as it pertains to magic systems. However, because magic systems are one of the things I most like to toy with in my writing, I have designed them in such a way that they encourage me toward stronger, and more interesting, magic in my fantasy books.

The Law

Sanderson’s Second Law can be written very simply. It goes like this:

Limitations > Powers

(Or, if you want to write it in clever electrical notation, you could say it this way:

Ω > |

though that would probably drive a scientist crazy.)

Let’s do some explaining here. When people describe a magic system, they usually talk about what it can do. Let’s use a very well known example: Superman. (Yes, superhero abilities are a magic system. In fact, many of them make for good examples, since many of them are well known in society and the scope of their powers is fairly well pinned down.)

If I were to ask you about Superman’s magic, you’d probably talk about his ability to fly, his super strength, the lasers he can shoot from his eyes. You may go from there to his invincibility and perhaps some of his lesser (and more inconsistent) powers. But if we stick with those four, we’ve got a pretty strong setup for what Superman is capable of doing.

However, is this what makes Superman interesting?

I’d put forth that it is not. There are lots of people with magic powers who can fly and who are invincible. There are a lot of strong, fast, or smart people. What makes Superman interesting, then? Two things: his code of ethics and his weakness to kryptonite.

Think about it for a moment. Why can Superman fly? Well, because that’s what he does. Why is he strong? Comic book aficionados might go into him drawing power from the sun, but in the end, we don’t really care why he’s strong. He just is.

But why is he weak to kryptonite? If you ask the common person with some familiarity with Superman, they’ll tell you it’s because kryptonite–this glowing green rock–is a shard from his homeworld, which was destroyed. The kryptonite draws you into the story, gets into who Superman is and where he comes from. Likewise, if you ask about his code of ethics–what he won’t do, rather than what he can do–we’ll go into talking about his family, how he was raised. We’ll talk about how Ma and Pa Kent instilled solid values into their adopted son, and how they taught him to use his strength not to kill, but to protect.

Superman is not his powers. Superman is his weaknesses.

What This Means for Writers

Now, that explanation above is a descriptive point. It illustrates a concept, but is just an example, working backward. And yet you’ll find this concept repeated time and time again in fantastical fiction. It isn’t what the heroes can do that is most important to who they are, but what they have trouble doing. (Or what they can’t do.) The Lord of the Rings is not, when you boil it down, about Gandalf’s magical powers or even Aragorn’s orc-slaying skills. It’s about the Hobbits, arguably the weakest (physically and magically) of the people in the books. It’s about Aragorn’s struggle to become king.

(The films, it should be noted, played this concept up much more than the books did, as the director realized Aragorn became far more interesting when he was reluctant to become king. His weakness gave him much more depth than his abilities.)

Now, this concept won’t hold in every example. And, more importantly, the average reader will miss this concept entirely. That’s okay. This law is meant for writers.

When you are designing a magic system, it is important to be working on new slants on powers. However, the truth is that it’s virtually impossible to come up with a magical effect that nobody else has thought of. Originality, I’ve seen, doesn’t come so often with the power itself as with the limitation. Take the Wheel of Time, for an example. This is a very popular epic fantasy series, and one I’ve long loved and had the privilege of being a part of. The magic system, at its core, is actually rather generic. People can manipulate the Aristotelian elements. Fire, earth, water, air, with the commonly added fifth element of spirit.

This core is not original. It’s the limitations, costs, and weaknesses of the magic system that bring us its more fascinating elements alongside its best plot hooks. In order to manipulate these five powers, practitioners draw forth “threads” of them and then “weave” the different powers into complex patterns, which then accomplish a goal. This is a limitation of the magic. Instead of merely willing something to happen, then having it happen, the practitioners must use skill and knowledge, and take time to create what they’re making. It also gives a visual component to the magic system (always an excellent addition) and–beyond that–ties the magic into the cosmology of the world. (In the Wheel of Time, the mythology of the setting teaches that everyone’s lives are threads woven into the pattern of time.)

On top of this, Robert Jordan added one of the most powerful costs to a magic system that I’ve ever read. Men who use the magic go slowly insane. This cost is wonderful, as it makes the magic worth something. It forces the characters to make tough choices, and then it shows real, story-based ramifications.

These are the sorts of things you should be looking for as a writer designing magic systems. (Or as a reader who is curious about the workings of fiction.) An excellent limitation on a magic system will do several things.

Struggle

It will force the characters to have to work for their goals, which makes the writing simply more interesting and the characters more sympathetic. In addition, if a magic is limited, the characters will need to be more clever to overcome their problems. (And you, as a writer, will need to force yourself to be more clever in writing.) For example: in Mistborn, the practitioners of the magic can move things with their minds. Basic telekinesis. However, there are two important limitations. The objects must be metal and the magic practitioner can only push them directly away or pull them directly toward themselves. The weight of the object is very important–a light object is pushed away, a heavy object pushes you away.

Suddenly, with these limitations, the characters are forced to work harder. And, in working harder, the written scene becomes much more interesting. Instead of a ho-hum scene with a character doing something abstract, the author ends up writing a scene where a character has to be very aware of their surroundings, has to place themselves very precisely, and has to work to achieve their goals. The nature of the magic encourages better writing.

Tension

An excellent magic system limitation will increase tension. Superman fighting an enemy is, honestly, not very tense. Superman fighting an enemy with kryptonite is far more tense. Batman fighting an enemy is not very tense. Batman fighting an enemy who is playing off of his inner fears (the current Batman’s biggest weakness being his psychological problems) suddenly becomes far more interesting.

Limitations give us tension. Too often, I see new authors leaving out excellent opportunities like this. From there, they end up writing bland scenes with magic that happens abstractly in ways we can’t relate to as readers.

Depth

You can do this with powers too. You can do this one with anything. However, my experience has been that great limitations require a little more stretching to explain. That forces you, as a writer, to create more depth to your world and characters. If you have a character whose power is the ability to fly, but then you add a limitation–she can only fly when she is happy, for example–then character depth will result. Suddenly, her mood is directly tied to the plot of the story. Her very personality is going to be involved deeply in her ability to accomplish things with her magic.

Limitations vs. Weaknesses vs. Costs

I have been lumping all kinds of different things under the heading of “limitations” for this essay. However, it’s useful to consider these elements in different lights. I generally think of the limiting factors of magic systems under three headings.

Limitations

These are the things that, for one reason or another, the magic simply cannot do. Superman can’t see through lead, for example. Every magic has basic limitations, defined simply as the limited scope of the power. If magical glasses can let you see a mile, then the limitation is that they don’t let you see farther than that.

However, in regards to designing magic systems, I suggest that the limitations be more encompassing than simple parameters. Yes, those delineations of what the magic can and cannot do are important, and that is where you begin. However, one of the tricks to designing a truly engaging magic system is in the final touches of those limitations. I’m not saying they always need to be rational–having a rule-based magic system isn’t about rationality, but consistency. (Of course rationality is always advisable, but sometimes impossible. We are talking about magic, after all.)

Let’s look at a magic system with an interesting limitation, David Eddings’s magic known as the Will and the Word. Now, this is basically an unbounded magic system with very few limitations other than the strength, skill, and endurance of the practitioner. (Alongside the occasional conservation of energy quirk.) However, it does have one rather intriguing limitation–you can do practically anything, but you cannot “unmake” something. You can’t command something to “be not.”

I’ve always liked this limitation because of its flavorful addition to the magic system. Rather than just being another boundary–you can’t use the magic when you’re too tired, or a similar basic limitation–it is an evocation of what the magic is about and what it means. This is the power of creation. It cannot unmake, and anyone who tries to use it to unmake is destroyed by the very nature of the power itself.

In seeking limitations, look for things that have good ties to the nature of your world. Also look for things that will force your characters (and you as a writer) to stretch in solving problems. Resist the urge to add new powers or remove limitations in order to solve problems; make the characters use what they have in new and innovative ways.

Without limitations, there is no innovation.

Weaknesses

Weaknesses are different from limitations. Weaknesses are things that enemies can exploit–rather than being things the power cannot do, they are things the power is vulnerable to. The obvious example from the essay earlier is kryptonite.

I realize this is a matter of semantics. In a way, a weakness is just another limitation. I believe it is helpful for the writer to look at them differently, however. It is not a weakness that your magic allows you to jump a hundred feet into the air, but not two hundred feet. That’s simply what the power does, the bounds it has. It is a weakness, however, if your ability to jump into the air leaves you vulnerable in some way, such as turning off your other powers. (Perhaps one needs to focus all energy on this single act.)

Weaknesses are more tricky to build into a magic system; I find it difficult to keep them from seeming simplistic or silly. As good as kryptonite is for explaining the importance of limitations, it’s become a cliché of easy storytelling. Need a weakness for your hero? Just take away their powers in certain circumstances.

I suggest avoiding such simple weaknesses. Once again, the purpose of building these weaknesses is to create a better story. Yes, a weakness can be a good way of checking a hero who has grown too powerful–but in the case of most magics, I suggest allowing the limitations to be what force this issue, not suddenly added weaknesses.

They can be used for great effect, however–I simply suggest making them subtle. Ways the magic is vulnerable or makes those using them more vulnerable. In fact, one might say that weaknesses are the bridge between limitations and the next category, which is an excellent way to limit a powerful magic.

Costs

The One Ring makes you more covetous and paranoid the longer you hold it–and, beyond that, if you use it to turn invisible, the evil powers can sense where you are. These things are what we call “costs.” Using the magic, or being associated with it, has a cost. These costs can be more abstract (you go crazy by using the magic) or more concrete (if you run out of spice, you can no longer travel faster than light in space). The distinction here is how much wiggle room the author has.

In the first example, what it means to be “insane” is left up to the author’s discretion. There are lots of different types of insanity, and how quickly someone goes insane–and what it means to be insane–are things that, as a writer, you can play with. In the second example, the cost is more concrete, locking the author into a certain specific cost. If it takes three magic beans to make the doorway appear, your character has to have the three magic beans. That’s it.

Both are useful for different reasons. Costs are very important to consider–readers naturally expect there to be a cost, and a lot of times, new writers skimp on giving their magic one. However, do be aware that if your cost is too drastic, it can lead to you never being able to use the magic. If casting a spell causes one of your grandparents to die, then we’re just not going to be able to see that spell used very often in your book. It’s easy to lock yourself in with a cost and it can hinder flexibility.

Others

These definitions are simply ways of looking at the issue. They aren’t catch-all categories. You can approach this in another way by asking yourself questions, and not allowing yourself to take the easy answers.

How does one gain access to the magic? The standard two methods are innate magic and learned magic. (Or a hybrid.) You can really make your magic stand out if innate limitations require a different way of gaining access to the magical powers.

How is the magic powered? All magic, to one extent or another, is going to break the laws of physics. However, you can mitigate this by asking yourself about preservation of the laws of thermodynamics. What is powering this magic? Where is the energy coming from, and where does the matter go? Once again, there are standards: the practitioner’s willpower is one, the power of the universe, such as an amorphous “force,” is another. (I used one of these in Elantris, and this is how the Wheel of Time magic is powered. These aren’t bad, but–once again–if you avoid the common, it can be a good way to force yourself to be original.)

How often can the magic be used? Does it require special implements? A special state of mind? Special ingredients? Once again, stay away from the standard. Look beyond what your first responses are.

Above all, remember the point of this. It is not to simply be more complex. It is to force you, as a writer, to create better stories. Therefore, the best limitations will have real effects on the characters, rather than pretend ones (i.e. the magic requires special implements that have no real effect on the plot, no real emotional or economic cost, and which the characters are never without). Look for things that tie the magic to other setting elements and which make life hard for the practitioners in interesting ways.

Not Just a Principle of Magics

I’ll close this essay by turning back to something I mentioned above. I don’t see Sanderson’s Laws of Magic as only relating to magic. I see them as storytelling principles, illustrated through ways one can design better magic systems.

So, in reality, this is a larger storytelling concept. Limitations are more important than abilities. It applies to characters–what they cannot do, what they won’t let themselves do, is more interesting in general than what they can do. It applies to worldbuilding. The costs of living in a harsh world are more interesting, often, than the benefits. (Think of Dune, for example.) The weaknesses inherent in the flora, fauna, and local building materials of your world are more interesting than what can be found there. (Notice in the film Avatar, the story is not really about the precious ore being mined, but in the difficulties in getting to that ore.)

And, if we bring this out to a broader issue, what your characters have trouble accomplishing in a plot is going to be far more interesting than what they can do easily. Remember that one simple rule, and your stories will be far more compelling.

Brandon Sanderson
April 2011

This essay first appeared in issue 61 of Leading Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy, for their 30th anniversary.

Read Sanderson’s Third Law of Magic

All right, now that the press release is out, let’s talk about some things. I like to be transparent with my readers, whenever possible, and I feel it’s time to let you in more fully on what has been happening this last year.

Pull up a chair. Get some hot cocoa. This is going to take a while. I’m a fantasy author. We have trouble with the concept of brevity.

In order to explain to you how this book came to be split as it did, I want to step you through some events of the last sixteen months. That way, you can see what led us up to making the decisions we did. You might still disagree with those decisions (many of you will.) But at least you’ll understand the rationale behind them.

Before we start, however, let me explain that I only saw one piece of what was going on. As I’ve stated before, Harriet and Tom are the ones making decisions when it comes to publication issues. I’ve deferred to them. My input has by no means been ignored, but often I was so focused on the book that I didn’t have the time or energy to do more than say “Harriet, I trust your decision. Go with what you feel is best.” Therefore, some of what I say may be distorted through my own lens. I don’t have the whole story, but I think I’ve got most of it.

Let’s hop back to November of 2007. That’s the month where I’d discovered for certain that I’d be the one finishing The Wheel of Time. I was excited, nervous, and daunted all at the same time—but today’s blog post isn’t about that aspect of the experience. Perhaps I’ll have a chance to write more about it later.

The first discussion of length came in late November, early December during the contract negotiations for A Memory of Light. I say negotiations, though those “negotiations” were really nothing more than Harriet’s agents saying “Here’s what we offer.” And me saying to my agent “Sounds good. Say yes.” I wasn’t about to let the chance to work on this book slip away.

The contract stipulated that I was to provide a completed work which (including Mr. Jordan’s written sections) was to be at least 200,000 words long. This sort of length provision isn’t uncommon in contracts; it’s there to make certain neither author nor publisher are surprised by the other’s expectations. It’s generally a ballpark figure, very flexible. I hadn’t seen any of the materials for A Memory of Light at that point, so I essentially signed blind, saying yes to produce something “At least 200,000 words” in length.

I’m not sure what Harriet was expecting at that point for length. She was still coping with Mr. Jordan’s death, and was focused on finding someone to complete A Memory of Light so that she could rest easier, knowing that it was being worked on. Remember, this was just months after Mr. Jordan passed away. I honestly don’t think she was thinking about length or—really—anything other than making certain the book was in the right hands. She left it to my decision how to proceed once I was given the materials.

Around January or February, I posted on my blog that I was shooting for a 200k minimum. This surprised a lot of people, as 200k would not only have made A Memory of Light the shortest Wheel of Time book other than the prequel, it seemed a very small space in which to tie up the huge number of loose ends in the book. I wasn’t focused on that at the moment; I was just passing along my thoughts on a minimum length. I think that I, at the time, hoped that we could do the book in around 250k. That was naive of me, but I honestly didn’t want to drag this on for years and years. I wanted to get the readers the book they’d been waiting for as soon as possible.

At that point, I started reading through the series again. I did this with the notes and materials for the final book at hand, taking notes myself of what plotlines needed to be closed, which viewpoints needed resolution. The read-through took me until March of 2008. As I progressed through the series, I began to grasp the daunting nature of this book. How much there was to do, how many plotlines needed to be brought back together, the weight of it all was enormous.

April 2008. I had to make a decision. I realized that the book would be impossible to do in 200k. I’d begun to say on my blog that it would be at least 400k, but even that seemed a stretch. I looked over the outlines, both mine and Mr. Jordan’s. I stared at them for a long time, thinking about the book. And this is where the first decision came in. Did I try to cram it into 400k? Or did I let it burgeon larger?

To get this into one book, I’d need to railroad the story from climax to climax. I’d have to ignore a lot of the smaller characters—and even some aspects of the larger characters. I just couldn’t justify that. It wouldn’t do the story justice. I cringed to consider what I would have to cut or ignore.

Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps readers would have preferred a single, condensed volume so that they at least knew what happened. But I just couldn’t do it. The Wheel of Time deserved better.

This was not an easy choice. I knew it would anger some readers. I knew it would take a lot of time, and I would end up dedicating a great deal more of my life (and my family’s life) to the Wheel of Time than I’d initially anticipated. At the very least, I was contemplating writing a book three to four times the length of the initial contract—essentially, doing four times the work for the exact same pay.

But this had never been about the pay for me. I’d been put in charge of this project. I wanted to do what I felt Mr. Jordan would have done. I felt, and feel, a debt to him for what he did with this series. He had promised readers a big, big book—not big for big’s sake, but big because there was so much to do, so much to tie up. I decided that I would do whatever the story demanded, no matter how many words it would require, no matter how mad it made people. I would not artificially inflate the book—but I would treat each character, even the minor characters, with care and consideration.

I flew to Charleston that month and outlined my feelings on the various outlines for the different characters. The Charleston camp was cautiously enthusiastic; I don’t know if they realized just how much work this would all take. I’m not sure if I even told them how many words I was starting to feel it would be. At this point, Harriet was pretty much letting me call the shots when it came to the actual drafting of the novel. Harriet is an editor; she works best when I provide material to her, then she works her magic to turn it from good to excellent. That meant I was in charge of getting material to her as I saw fit, then she would tell me if I was on target or needed to try again.

I had already set the progress bar at 400k words on my website. I started writing in earnest, and also started warning people that the book was likely going to run longer than my initial estimate. Perhaps much longer. Soon, I was saying 750k.

By this point, I’d already warned Tom and Harriet that I saw the length being very large, but I hadn’t told Tom the 700–800k number. When I’d mentioned 400k to him once, he’d been wary. He explained to me that he felt 400k was unprintably large in today’s publishing market. Things have changed since the 90’s, and booksellers are increasingly frustrated with the fantasy genre, which tends to take up a lot of shelf space with very few books. There is constant pressure from the big chain bookstores to keep things smaller and thinner. When I’d turned in Mistborn 2 (revised and already trimmed) at 250k, production and marketing had nearly had a fit, complaining that the book would cost more to print than it would make. Tom approved the publication of the book anyway. (And fortunately we managed to fit it into enough pages—and sell enough copies—that it was still profitable.)

Anyway, Tom implied that 400k was what he saw as a cutoff for length. Anything 300–350 could be one book, anything over 350 should be cut. (That’s me guessing on things he said; he never gave those hard-and-fast numbers, and I know there was probably some flexibility.) Anyway, Tom—like Harriet—wanted to wait and see what I was able to produce first. At this point, it was too early to begin talk of cutting the book. I’d barely written any of it.

I wrote all summer, and the next point of interest comes at Worldcon. Tom and I were on a panel together, talking about A Memory of Light. I noted that (by that point) I had around 250k written. He said something like “Ah, so you’re almost done!” I looked chagrined and said “Actually, I feel that I’m only about a third of the way there, Tom.” He blinked, shocked, and then laughed a full bellied laugh. “It’s happening again!” he exclaimed. “Jim sold me one book that somehow became three, and now it’s happening again!”

Well, that was the first hint I had that this might be three books instead of two. I started to lobby Harriet subtly, pointing out that previous Wheel of Time books had been 380k, and perhaps that would be a good length for each volume of A Memory of Light, if it was cut. I also indicated that I felt it would be really nice to keep volumes of the book published close together if, indeed, the book had to be split.

What I didn’t realize was just how taxing this process was going to be. There’s only so much one person can write in a year. Before working on A Memory of Light, my average wordcount for a year was around 300k. One 200k epic fantasy, then 50–100k on other projects. During 2008 I wrote over 400k—fully a third more than usual, and that was done with three months of my working time spent re-reading and taking notes on the Wheel of Time series. (Yes, it was easier because of materials left by Mr. Jordan. However, that was offset by the need to become an expert on thousands of characters, places, themes, and worldbuilding elements. All in all, even with outlines, notes, and written materials Mr. Jordan left, I’d say this was the most difficult 400k I’ve ever written.)

By December, after my book tour, I was pushing hard to even get 400k done. I still had this phantom hope that somehow, I’d be able to spend January, February, and March writing harder than I’d ever written before and somehow get to 750k by the March deadline that Tom had said was about the latest he could put a book into production and still have it out for the holidays.

In January, Tom called Harriet and they talked. At this point, I’d hit my 400k goal, and I knew that I was only about halfway done. (If even that far along.) Very little of that 400k had been revised or drafted. Tom and Harriet chatted, and several things came up. One of the most dominating points was this: it had been four years since the fans had been given Knife of Dreams. Tom felt that we needed to provide them a book in 2009. They couldn’t wait until I finished the entire volume to publish something.

Harriet called me and I finally agreed that I needed to stop work on writing new material. It was time to begin revising. That was, essentially, the decision to split the book. And I wasn’t certain that we could simply print the 400k that I had written. There were scenes all over the place, and if we printed that portion as-is, it would cut off right in the middle of several plot arcs. The book just wouldn’t be any fun to read. Beyond that, editing 400k would take too much time to have it done by April.

This is the second big decision. Perhaps you would have chosen differently. But let me outline the options as I see them. Pretend you’re Tom Doherty or Harriet in January 2009, making the call on how to publish the book.

1) You can decide not to print anything until the entire novel is finished. That means letting Brandon write until the end, then revising the entire thing at once, followed by printing the book (either as one enormous volume or several chunks, released in quick succession.) Last summer and fall, this was what I was hoping we’d be able to do.

If you make this choice, the readers don’t get a book in 2009. You’re not sure when they’ll get a book. Brandon took a year to write 400k words, and feels that he’s around halfway done.

So, if you choose this option, let’s say Brandon writes all 2009, delivers you a rough draft of a full, 800k book in 2010. 800k words would take roughly eight months to edit and revise. Production would take another eight months or so. (Minimum.) You’d be looking at releasing the book somewhere in summer 2011. Perhaps one volume in June and another in August.

2) You could publish the 400k as they are done right now. If you do this, the readers do not get a book in 2009. 400k would take roughly four months to revise (and that’s rushing it), and you’d have to put the novel into production with a January or February 2010 release date. That’s not too far off the November 2009 date you’d promised people, so maybe they would be satisfied. But you’d leave them with a story that literally cut off right in the middle of several plotlines, and which did not have tied up resolutions.

In this scenario, Brandon writes all through 2009, turns in the second half sometime around April or May 2010. It takes roughly four months to edit and revise that portion, and you’re looking at a summer 2011 release for the second half. Maybe spring 2011. (This way, you get the whole thing to the readers a little bit faster than the other option because you have the luxury of putting one half through production while Brandon is writing the second half.)

However, in this scenario, you end up releasing two fractured books, and the bookstores are mad at you for their size. (Which may translate to the bookstores ordering fewer copies, and fans being mad because they can’t find copies as easily as they want—this is what happened with Mistborn Two, by the way.). Beyond that, you missed releasing a book in the holiday season, instead putting one in the dead months of early 2010.

3) You could do what Tom did. You go to Brandon (or, in this case, to Harriet who goes to Brandon) and you say “You have 400k words. Is there a division point in there somewhere that you can cut the book and give us a novel with a strong climax and a natural story arc?”

I spent a few days in January looking over the material, and came to Tom and Harriet with a proposal. I had what I felt would make the best book possible, divided in a certain way, which came out to be around 275,000 words. It had several strong character arcs, it told a very good story, and it closed several important plot threads. I felt it would be an excellent book.

Now, this was longer than they’d wanted. They’d hoped I’d find them a cutting point at the 225k mark. But I didn’t feel good about any cuts earlier than 275. In fact, I later took that 275,000 word book and I added an extra 25k in scenes (one’s I’d been planning to write anyway, but decided would work better here in this chunk) in order to fill it out and make of it the most solid novel possible. Right now, the book sits at about 301,000 words—though that will fluctuate as I trim out some excess language here and there. I suspect the final product will be right around 300,000 words.

Now, let’s assume you made this decision, just as Tom did. This is the only case in which you get to keep your promise to the Wheel of Time readers and deliver a book in 2009. (Though, it took a lot of work to get it ready. I’ve been pulling 14–16 hour days six days a week for the last three months.) In this scenario, you get to deliver them a solid book, rather than a fractured one.

But you are also splitting a book that Robert Jordan intended to be one book. (Tom and Harriet both have said they don’t think he could have done it, or would have done it, given the chance.) A bigger problem is that you’re releasing a book without knowing when you’ll be able to release the next section. You aren’t certain what to tell people when they ask how large a gap there will be between the books; it will depend on how long the next chunk is and when Brandon can finish it. (Plus, Brandon keeps increasing the final estimate, which—now that I’ve added some material to this book—indicates that the final product will easily be over 800k.)

So . . . how big will the gap be? Well, the honest truth is that I don’t know. Tom has been telling other publishers and retailers that November 2009, 2010, 2011 seems like a safe bet. But that’s just an estimate, erring on the side of caution. I’m pretty certain that we have to divide the book in three parts because of where I chose to make the split. There will be another good split at around the 600k mark.

If I had the next 300k or so done already, it would take me 4 months to revise it at the shortest. I feel that the next chunk is going to need a lot more revision than this one did. Partially because I cut into the 450k completed portion with the hacksaw and pulled out 275k. What’s left over is ragged and in need of a lot of work. I’d say five months of revisions is more likely. So, if it were all done, we’d have the second book coming out five months after the first.

But it’s not all done. It’s around halfway done. I’ve got a lot of writing left to do—four to six months worth, I’d guess. By these estimates, we’ll have another book ready to go to press, then, in February next year. That means a fall 2010 release. And if things continue as they have, the third book (none of which is written right now) would come out summer 2011 at the earliest.

And I guess that’s what I’m trying to show you with all of this: No matter how the book is split, cut, or divided, the last portion wouldn’t come out until 2011. Why? It goes back to that first decision I made, the one to write the book the length I felt it needed to be. And so, it’s not the greedy publisher, stringing you along that is keeping you from reading the ending. It’s not the fault of production taking a long time. The blame rests on me.

I am writing this book long. I’m writing it very long. Most books in most genres are around 100k long. I’m shooting for eight times that length. And one person can only produce so much material, particularly on a project like this. Writing this book, keeping all of these plot threads and characters straight, is like juggling boulders. It’s hard, hard work.

You’re getting a book this year. You’ll get one next year. You’ll get one the year after that. I don’t know which months in 2010 or 2011 the books will come out. You can keep hope they’ll be sooner, but you might want to listen to Tom’s November, November estimate, as I feel it’s the absolute latest you’d see the books.

I know some of you will be mad that it is getting split; I feel for you, and I hope to be able to persuade Tor and Harriet to publish a special edition omnibus some day. But . . . well, they’re both convinced that it will be too long for that. I’m not going to fight for it right now; I’ll wait until the books come out.

I will continue to fight to get the books released as quickly as is reasonable. But I have to write them first. You’ve been able to watch my progress bar; you know that I’m working and the book is getting written. I’m not going on vacations and living it up. I’m working. Hard. Sixty, seventy, sometimes eighty hour weeks.

I won’t make you wait an undue amount of time. But please understand that some of the things you want are mutually exclusive. You want a high quality book that is of an enormous length published quickly. Get me a time machine and I’ll see what I can do.

George Martin and Patrick Rothfuss have both spoken on this topic already, and both did it quite eloquently. Books, as opposed to a lot of other forms of mass media, are unique in that they rest solely on the production capabilities of one single person. A good day of writing for a lot of authors is about 1,000 words. And you’re lucky to get 200 days of writing in a year, with all of the other demands (edits, copyedits, book tours, publicity events, school visits, etc.) that come your way. I tend to scale higher than the average, partially (I think) because of all those years I spent unpublished getting into the habit of constantly writing new books.

But even I can only do so much. We’ll get these books to you. At the slowest, they will be November, November, November—meaning that they all come out in the space of two years. Perhaps it will be faster. If we can do them more quickly, and keep the quality up, I will continue to advocate for that. But I honestly don’t know if I can do another two years like these last sixteen months. I’m exhausted. I’ve pushed very, very hard to get you a book in 2009 because you’ve been waiting so long. But I can’t promise that I’ll be able to keep the same schedule. Plus, I do have other commitments, contracts signed to other publishers, fans of other writings of mine who cannot be ignored. I’ll need to write another Alcatraz book this year sometime. And I will have to do revisions on The Way of Kings, which I’ve stayed pretty quiet about. I’m planning to do these things during down time on A Memory of Light, when waiting for revision notes or the like. But I also can’t afford to get burned out on The Wheel of Time. You deserve better than that.

Now, some words about titles. Where did The Gathering Storm come from? Well, in January where it was decided to split the book, I continued to advocate for something that would indicate that this was one book, split into three parts. (I still see it that way.) And so, I suggested that they all be named A Memory of Light with subtitles. I love the title A Memory of Light; I think it’s poetic and appropriate. Plus, it was Mr. Jordan’s title for the book. That alone is good enough reason to keep it.

And so, I suggested smaller, shorter, more generic sub-titles for each of the parts. With a long, evocative title like A Memory of Light as the supertitle, the subtitles needed to be shorter and more basic, as to not draw attention. The first of these was named Gathering Clouds by Maria’s suggestion. Book two would be Shifting Winds, book three Tarmon Gai’don, all with the supertitle of A Memory of Light.

We proceeded with that as our plan for several months. And then, suddenly, Tom got word from marketing that the titles needed to change. The bookstores didn’t like them. (You’ll find that the bookstores control a lot in publishing. You’d be surprised at how often the decisions are made because of what they want.) In this case, the bookstores worried that having three books titled A Memory of Light would be too confusing for the computer system and the people doing the reordering. They asked for the supertitle to be cut, leaving us with the title Gathering Clouds.

I shot off an email to Harriet, explaining that I never intended that title to be the one that carried the book. It was too generic, too basic. She went to Tom with some suggestions for alternates, and The Gathering Storm was what they decided. This all happened in a matter of hours, most of it occurring before I got up in the morning. (I sent her an email at night, then by the time I rose, they’d made the decision out on the east coast.) Some materials had already gone out as Gathering Clouds, and I wonder if The Gathering Storm was chosen because it was similar. I know it was the one out of those suggested by Harriet that Tom liked the most. It’s somewhat standard, but also safe.

That title swap came at me rather fast. I plan to be ready for the next one, so hopefully we’ll have the time to produce something a little more evocative. I don’t mind The Gathering Storm, but I do realize that it is one of the more bland Wheel of Time titles. (My favorite title, by the way, is Crossroads of Twilight.)

I think that brings you all up to speed. The question many of you are probably wondering now is “What did you decide to put in this book, and what did you decide to hold off until the next one?” I can’t answer that yet—perhaps when the time gets closer, I’ll be able to hint at what was included and what was saved. But know that I believe strongly in the place where the cut was made, and I love how the final product has turned out.

I also want to mention that one of my main goals in division was to make certain that most (if not all) of the major characters had screen time. Some have more than others, but almost everyone has at least a couple of chapters. (In other words, it wasn’t cut like A Feast for Crows/A Dance with Dragons with half the viewpoints in one and half in the other.) However, some of the important things you are waiting for had—by necessity—to be reserved for the second book.

I’m almost done with the revisions on the first part. I expect to start writing new material for part two sometime in April. The progress bar will inch forward again when that happens.

Anyway, that’s the story of how this all came to be. I don’t expect you all to be happy with the choices we’ve made, but I do want you to understand where we are coming from. I have to trust my instincts as a writer. They are what got me here, they are what made Harriet choose me to work on this book, and it would be a mistake for me to ignore them now.

The Gathering Storm will vindicate those choices. So, if possible, I ask you to hold back on some of your worry and/or anger until you at least read the book this November. As always, the work itself is the best argument for why I do what I do.

Brandon Sanderson

March 2009

Cross posted from the EUOLogy section of my website:

My career, like many young fantasy authors, has been deeply influenced by Robert Jordan, and I find his passing a to be a tragedy for the entire community.

I still remember the first time I saw EYE OF THE WORLD on bookshelves. I was at my local comic store, which was the place where I bought my fantasy books. I went to buy the next book in the Guardians of the Flame series, and while browsing the new paperback shelf, I saw this HUGE fantasy novel there.

It was so big that it scared me, and I didn’t buy it. (This is particularly ironic for me, who now regularly publishes books of 250,000 words or so.) Still, I can almost FEEL that moment, standing and holding the book in my hands, listening to someone play an antiquated upright of Cadash in the background.

EYE had such a beautiful Darryl Sweet cover. I’m often down on him as an artist, but with EYE OF THE WORLD, I remember why he became one of the powerhouses he is now. I think, even still, the cover of EYE is the best he’s ever done—one of the best in fantasy. I remember opening the cover and seeing the second illustration on the inside flap, and wondering if it was a rejected cover design.

Either way, I loved the cover. The feel of the troop marching along, Lan and Moiraine proud and face forward. . . . The cover screamed epic.

I bought the book a few weeks later, and loved it. I was happy when, several years later, the next book came out in hardback. I couldn’t afford it then, but I could afford DRAGON REBORN when it was in hardcover, and so I bought it. That has been my tradition ever since—I buy them, even if I haven’t read the last two, as I wait for the series to finish.

I still think EYE is one of the greatest fantasy books ever written. It signifies an era, the culmination of the epic quest genre which had been brewing since Tolkien initiated it in the 60’s. The Wheel of Time dominated my reading during the 90’s, influencing heavily my first few attempts at my own fantasy novels. I think it did that to pretty much all of us; even many of the most literarily snobbish of fantasy readers were youths when I was, and read EYE OF THE WORLD when I did.

Eventually, I found myself reacting AGAINST Wheel of Time in my writing. Not because I disliked Jordan, but because I felt he’d captured the epic quest story so well that I wanted to explore new grounds. As his books chronicled sweeping scenes of motion set behind characters traveling all across his world, I started to set mine in single cities. As his stories focused on peasants who became kings, I began to tell stories about kings who became peasants. One of them those was ELANTRIS.

I only saw Robert Jordan one time. By then, I had begun attending the conventions. You could say I’d become a journeyman writer; I’d developed my style, and was now looking to learn about the business. At World Fantasy one year (I think it was Montreal), I saw a man in a hat and beard walk by in the hotel hallway outside a convention room. He was alone, yet distinguished, as he walked with his cane. I’d never seen him sit on panels, yet I felt that I should know who he was. I turned to the person beside me and asked.

“That?” they said as the figure hobbled around the corner. “That was James Oliver Rigney, Jr.”

“Uh . . . okay.”

“Robert Jordan,” they said. “That was Robert Jordan.”

Eventually, I got an offer on one of my books from an editor whom I’d met at that same World Fantasy convention. My agent suggested that we play the field, using that offer as bait to hook a larger deal at another publisher. But, this offer had come from Tor. Robert Jordan’s publisher. Some fifteen years after I’d picked up that first printing copy of EYE OF THE WORLD, I still felt the influence of Jordan. Tor was his publisher. That MEANT fantasy to me. It’s where I wanted to be.

I took the deal.

Now, he’s gone. I’m sure many see this as an opportunity, not a tragedy. Who is the heir apparent? I wonder how many authors emailed their editors Monday, asking if someone was needed to finish the EYE OF THE WORLD series. Even if none of them are chosen for that task, there will be a feeling that Tor needs to push somebody to fill the hole in their line-up.

And yet, I sit here thinking that something has CHANGED. Something is missing. Some hated you, Mr. Jordan, claiming you represented all that is terrible about popular fantasy. Others revered you as the only one who got it RIGHT.

Personally, I simply feel indebted to you. You showed me what it was to have vision and scope in a fantasy series—you showed me what could be done. I still believe that without your success, many younger authors like myself would never have had a chance at publishing their dreams.

You go quietly, but leave us trembling.

Brandon Sanderson

Introduction

I like magic systems. That’s probably evident to those of you who have read my work. A solid, interesting and innovative system of magic in a book is something that really appeals to me. True, characters are what make a story narratively powerful—but magic is a large part of what makes the fantasy genre distinctive.

For a while now, I’ve been working on various theories regarding magic systems. There’s a lot to consider here. As a writer, I want a system that is fun to write. As a reader, I want something that is something fun to read. As a storyteller, I want a setting element that is narratively sound and which offers room for mystery and discovery. A good magic system should both visually appealing and should work to enhance the mood of a story. It should facilitate the narrative, and provide a source of conflict.

I’d like to approach the concept of magic in several different essays, each detailing one of the ‘laws’ I’ve developed to explain what I think makes good magic systems. As always, these are just my thoughts. Though I call them laws, they’re nothing more than simple guidelines that have worked for me. Just like it’s sometimes good to violate rules of grammar, authors can violate my theories and still have good books. However, I do think that by following these, you can work to develop more potent and memorable magic in your books.

The Law

Sanderson’s First Law of Magics: An author’s ability to solve conflict with magic is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said magic.

When I applied to be on the programming of my very first Worldcon (following my sale of Elantris, but before the book was actually released) I saw that they were doing a “How does the magic work?” panel. I eagerly indicated that I’d very much like to be a part of it, and to my delight, the committee put me on it.

It was my very first panel at the convention. I arrived somewhat bleary-eyed after an extended flight from Utah to Boston, but managed to find my way up to the front of the room, notes prepared, ideas prepared, sharpened, and ready to be unsheathed. I sat on the end of the table, and so was the first to speak when the moderator asked “All right, let’s begin with the simple question. How should magic work?”

I said something I took as a GIVEN. After all, I’d read it in Orson Scott Card’s writing book (I highly recommend the chapter on magic) and had used it as a rule of thumb for some time. It was the thing that I assumed was the first law of magic systems.

“Well,” I said. “Obviously magic has to have rules.”

And every other person on the panel disagreed with me violently. “If you have lots of rules and boundaries for your magic,” they explained, “then you lose your sense of wonder! Fantasy is all about wonder! You can’t restrict yourself, or your imagination, by making your magic have rules!”

I was dumbfounded. Suddenly, I realized that most of the reading I’d done on the subject had been produced by a segment of the population who liked a particular kind of magic. However, there appeared to be another complete school of thought on the matter. I struggled to defend myself for the rest of the panel, and left thinking that everyone else there must have really weak magic systems in their books.

Then, I thought about it for a while. Can’t someone have a good story that does things differently from the way I do it? Can’t you have magic without explaining lots of rules and laws for their magic? Tolkien didn’t really explain his magic.

Yet, if the stories don’t have rules and laws for their magic, don’t they risk Deus Ex Machina (contrived endings) in their books? From the beginnings of the fantasy genre, its biggest criticism has been that it has no consistency. John Campbell, one of the most influential and important editors in the history of science fiction, once argued:

The major distinction between fantasy and science fiction is, simply, that science fiction uses one, or a very, very few new postulates, and develops the rigidly consistent logical consequences of these limited postulates. Fantasy makes its rules as it goes along . . . The basic nature of fantasy is “The only rule is, make up a new rule any time you need one!” The basic rule of science fiction is “Set up a basic proposition—then develop its consistent, logical consequences.”

I disagree with this soundly—but in Mr. Campbell’s defense, fantasy has come a long way since the sixties (when he wrote that in Analog.) Fantasy doesn’t have to be about stories where the authors simply make up whatever they need. Still, I think that it is a criticism we fantasy writers need to be aware of and wary regarding. If we simply let ourselves develop new rules every time our characters are in danger, we will end up creating fiction that is not only unfulfilling and unexciting, but just plain bad.

Soft Magic

And so I began to develop my first law as a way to include magic systems that don’t follow very strict rules, but which also don’t undermine their plots. Let me state my law again: An author’s ability to solve conflict with magic is directly proportional to how well the reader understands said magic.

This leaves room for those who want to preserve the sense of wonder in their books. I see a continuum, or a scale, measuring how authors use their magic. On one side of the continuum, we have books where the magic is included in order to establish a sense of wonder and give the setting a fantastical feel. Books that focus on this use of magic tend to want to indicate that men are a small, small part of the eternal and mystical workings of the universe. This gives the reader a sense of tension as they’re never certain what dangers—or wonders—the characters will encounter. Indeed, the characters themselves never truly know what can happen and what can’t.

I call this a “Soft Magic” system, and it has a long, established tradition in fantasy. I would argue that Tolkien himself is on this side of the continuum. In his books, you rarely understand the capabilities of Wizards and their ilk. You, instead, spend your time identifying with the hobbits, who feel that they’ve been thrown into something much larger, and more dangerous, than themselves. By holding back laws and rules of magic, Tolkien makes us feel that this world is vast, and that there are unimaginable powers surging and moving beyond our sight.

However, there is something you have to understand about writing on this side of the continuum. The really good writers of soft magic systems very, very rarely use their magic to solve problems in their books. Magic creates problems, then people solve those problems on their own without much magic. (George R. R. Martin’s “A Song of Fire and Ice” uses this paradigm quite effectively.)

There is a reason that Gandalf doesn’t just fly Frodo to Mount Doom with magic, then let him drop the ring in. Narratively, that just doesn’t work with the magic system. We don’t know what it can do, and so if the writer uses it to solve a lot of problems, then the tension in the novel ends up feeling weak. The magic undermines the plot instead enhancing it.

So, if you want to write soft magic systems, I suggest you hold yourself to NOT letting your magic solve problems for your characters. If the characters try to use the magic, it shouldn’t do what they expect it to—as the reader doesn’t know what to expect either. Use the magic for visuals and for ambiance, but not for plot. (Unless it’s there to screw up things for the characters. That’s always okay.)

Hard Magic

On the other side of the continuum, we have hard magic. This is the side where the authors explicitly describes the rules of magic. This is done so that the reader can have the fun of feeling like they themselves are part of the magic, and so that the author can show clever twists and turns in the way the magic works. The magic itself is a character, and by showing off its laws and rules, the author is able to provide twists, worldbuilding, and characterization.

If the reader understands how the magic works, then you can use the magic (or, rather, the characters using the magic) to solve problems. In this case, it’s not the magic mystically making everything better. Instead, it’s the characters’ wit and experience that solves the problems. Magic becomes another tool—and, like any other tool, its careful application can enhance the character and the plot.

I would place Isaac Asimov on this side of the continuum. It’s a bit irregular of me to use a man who, from essays I’ve read, was generally disapproving of the fantasy genre. (Asimov argued that fantasy was about dumb people—men with swords—killing smart people in the form of wizards.)

However, I think Isaac’s robot stories are a perfect example of a Hard Magic system. In his robot stories, Asimov outlines three distinct laws, then never adds any more and never violates those laws. From the interplay of those three laws, he gave us dozens of excellent stories and ideas.

Note that by calling something “Hard Magic” I’m not implying that it has to follow laws of science, or even that there have to be explanations of WHY people can use this magic. All I’m talking about is the reader’s understanding of what the magic can DO. Take superheroes, for instance. You may be tempted to assume that superhero magic is a “Soft” magic system. After all, the powers are often ridiculous with reasons for existing that defy any kind of logic or science. (IE: “I got bit by a radioactive spider, then gained the powers of a spider!”)

However, superhero systems are very much Hard Magic systems. Remember, we’re looking at this as writers, not as scientists. Narratively, superhero magic tends to be rather specific and explicit. (Depending on the story.) We generally know exactly which powers Spider-man has and what they do. He 1) Can Sense danger 2) has superhuman strength and endurance 3) Can shoot webs from his hands and 4) Can cling to walls. While in the comics, he does sometimes gain other strange powers (making the system softer), he does generally stick to these abilities in the movies.

Therefore, we’re not surprised when Spider-man shoots a web in a bad guy’s face. We’ve established that he can do that, and it makes sense to us when he does it. It is narratively a Hard Magic system, rather than a Soft Magic system.

The Middle Ground

Most writers are somewhere in the middle between these two extremes. A good example of what I consider to be near the center point would be Rowling’s Harry Potter books. Each of these books outlines various rules, laws, and ideas for the magic of the world. And, in that given book, those laws are rarely violated, and often they are important to the workings of the book’s climax. However, if you look at the setting as a whole, you don’t really ever understand the capabilities of magic. She adds new rules as she adds books, expanding the system, sometimes running into contradictions and conveniently forgetting abilities the characters had in previous novels. These lapses aren’t important to the story, and each single book is generally cohesive.

I think she balances this rather well, actually. In specifics, her magic is hard. In the big picture, her magic is soft. That allows her to use magic as points of conflict resolution, yet maintain a strong sense of wonder in the novels.

I consider my own magic systems to be perhaps 80% hard, maybe a bit more. My own paradigm is to develop a complicated magic system which can be explained as simply as possible, but which has a lot of background and ‘behind the scenes’ rules. Many of these workings don’t get explained in the books, particularly at the first. The characters have some good understanding of the magic, but they rarely understand its complete form. This is partially because I treat my magics like sciences, and I don’t believe that we will ever completely understand all of the laws of science. Partially, also, I do this so that I can have discoveries and revelations in the novels. I like mystery more than I like mysticism.

So, following this, we have my own Mistborn series. In them, I outline many rules of the magic, then offer up a few unexplained exceptions or inconsistencies which I proceed to explain in further books. The interplay of how the different laws of magic work is vital to understanding major plot points.

How To Use This

If you’re a writer working on your fantasy magic systems, I suggest that you decide what kind of feel you want for your magic. Do you like the techno-magic like you find in my books, or in books by L.E. Modesitt Jr. and Melanie Rawn? Do you like the hybrids like you find in someone more like David Eddings or J.K. Rowling? Or, do you prefer your magic to be more vague and mysterious, like you see in Tolkien or the George R. R. Martin books? I like to read works by all of these authors, but when I write, I prefer to have rules, costs, and laws to work with in my magic, and that makes it more fun for me.

What is the most interesting to you when writing? What feel or mood seems the best match for the particular book you’re working on? (I’ve done mostly hard magic, but my kid’s series has a slightly softer—perhaps 50/50—magic system. I did this intentionally, both because of the wacky nature of the books, and because I wanted to enhance the feel of the character being thrown into a strange world he didn’t understand.)

Resist the urge to use magic to solve problems unless you’ve already explained and shown that aspect of how the magic works. Don’t give the heroes a new power whenever they need one, and be very careful about writing laws into your system just so that you can use them in a single particular situation. (This can make your magic seem flimsy and convenient, even if you HAVE outlined its abilities earlier.)

If you’re writing a hard magic system, when your character run into a problem, ask yourself “How could the characters use what they already have and know to solve this conflict?” Then, make them use what they have, instead of giving them something more. This will make the story more interesting, force your characters to stretch, and provide more fun for the reader.

If you’re writing a soft magic system, ask yourself “How can they solve this without magic?” or even better, “How can using the magic to TRY to solve the problem here really just make things worse.” (An example of this: The fellowship relies on Gandalf to save them from the Balrog. Result: Gandalf is gone for the rest of that book.)

Most of all, experiment and find out what you enjoy, then make it work for you.

Brandon Sanderson

February, 2007

(This is the SECOND draft of this essay. It will likely still be revised, and probably has a ton of typos in it.)

Read Sanderson’s Second Law
Read Sanderson’s Third Law of Magic